Life Goes On
by Scarfy
Summary: A collection of oneshots for Mimi, Maureen, Joanne, Roger, Mark, Collins and Benny the stories will be taking place in that chronological order and will be posted in that order from the spot between 'Goodbye Love' and 'Finale.' Angst abound.
1. MIMI: Under All That Makeup

UNDER ALL THAT MAKEUP

**AUTHORS NOTE: Okay. I'm doing a fic for everyone (Mimi, Maureen, Mark, Roger, Collins, Benny) during the period between 'Goodbye Love' and 'Finale'. This one is Mimi. Inspired bya friend who said that my Mimi could _never_ do angst. Because she's really fluffy, but WHATEVER. Mimi!Angst, for your viewing pleasure. **_**Reposted from Under All That Makeup.**_

Everyday she took a good long look in the mirror. Not at herself, really, but past the cover-up that masks the black circle under her eyes and past the dark scarlet lipstick and the color caked on her eyes. To her, it's as if the bright lights surrounding the mirror behind stage she can see a little deeper then she can see in a normally. Like she's looking past herself. Through her. Inside.

She isn't. She knows she isn't. Despite popular belief, she's not stupid. She knows there's no difference between this mirror and the one at home expect the fact that her physical imperfections are more clear. She can easily see the starved-looking definitions of her face and the way her collar bone sticks out too much for her liking and the few lines on her upper chest at home, but there, these simple dislikes became obsessions.

There, she was skinny and so obviously_ dying_ and no mantra, no hope, can change that.

Everyday, she wondered why she goes through this every night. Why she looks in the mirror and speculates and obsesses over and just prays that she could just be normal. Right now, she can just settle for being okay. Normal is unreachable. Being normal was a simple dream that Mimi gave up on a long time ago. Being okay was only in about half a month's distance, so close that if she reached out her hand she was sure she could just grab it. That she could just snatch the time that Angel was alive and well and suddenly be there. That's being okay.

And sometimes, being okay can be the best thing in the world.

Her hands scooped up the eyeliner, and she attempted to concentrate on her eyes. She had good eyes. Brown. Deep brown. Not mud brown, but a nice shiny brown like... whatever pretty thing brown was. Mimi couldn't think of one right now.

A quick line under each eye, and she was fine. There was no need to go back under it with something to make it less eccentric. 'We wear whore-makeup, girls,' one of them had said once. At that point, Mimi laughed and just put on a little more with a light smile. Now, the memory only caused a light smile dance across her lips, and they barely parted, as if glued together.

Over the course of the last few weeks, that word began to rub Mimi the wrong way. It always did though, but only in the dark corners of the strip longue where probing hands came over her long after when they were supposed to stop. Other time, she was called the word unscathed. It was only a word. It only mattered when meaning was attached.

Lately, she guessed there was just a lot more meaning attached.

She was called that in the alleyway, with the quick exchange of a precious white packet but no return trade was made. He'd know when. And his hands would find her waist and her hands would roam over him, too needy to be connected to her brain. It was her hands, not her. It was her hands who somewhat liked the few moments they were pressed against each other, believing for a few seconds, that he was Roger and that this was love. When he spoke, he startled her out of her illusion, and merely left her with the packet and a dazed, empty sort of expression.

_'Yes. Yes, whore. Yes.'_

She was called that in the middle of Benny's apartment, here to tell him goodbye. More of a 'get out of my life' then a goodbye. But really, she knew he didn't deserve that. He only tried to help. He always only tried to help, and it always hurt him in the end. She pulled the key into his apartment door, pulling it back and peeking inside slowly. There, stood recognizably, was Alison Grey. Mimi knew her. Alison didn't. But as soon the tall woman inside knew her name, and as soon as she figured it out she was rushing her out the door, screaming and yelling and crying in a way Mimi never knew she could make someone cry.

_'Out! Out you whore, out! Find someone else's life to ruin. Find somewhere else to go. You're not welcome here. You never were. Now, go. Just get...get... Get out.'_

She was called that by Roger. He was starting up the car and somehow, she dropped her pride and begged him not to go. She was threw with Benny. She'd be threw with Benny. She only picked him up again once he left her. He couldn't do this to her. He just couldn't. He just tore her hands from his arm and pulled open the door to the old cherry red car and stared at her for a long time before stepping in. He left her with one word.

_'Whore.'_

She was sure he could of thought up something better then that. There was a stronger word, a better insult. Whore was never a strong word to Mimi. It was useless. Words were only what you made of them, you know. And suddenly, she felt a strong sort of hate for the word. She felt a strong sort of hate for herself, and what she was. A whore.

Mimi took another good long word at herself in the mirror. She looked past the makeup and past everything else, like the mirror only allowed herself to do. She looked past the weathering thinness and the strong hateful sort of look she was getting at. At something far deeper, something a lot more understandable. Something she could only see in this mirror, but everyone else could see outside of it.

She let the eyeliner fall to the plastic tabletop and let it roll across to meet the mirror, and she watched it roll across to meet the mirror. Her eyes, her mud brown eyes, traveled up and took her face, meeting their double in the mirror.

"Whore." She told her reflection, her lips, clogged by paint, cracked a large grin.

And somehow, it hurt the most when she told that to herself.

Everyday, Mimi takes a good long look at herself in the mirror and reminds herself what she really is under all that makeup. A whore.


	2. MAUREEN: It Feels Right

IT FEELS RIGHT

**AUTHORS NOTE: OKAAAAY. Here's Maureen's. It's a little mindless and jumbled, but I like it. So there. AAAAAnd. Yes. Review, plz. Because I LOVE YOU. :3. And review all your stories because I enjoy reviewing. Oh yeah. If anyone wants to beta (?) for me, that would help. I always love second-opinions.**

BTW, CHAPTER STORY THAT'S NOT ALL ONE-SHOTS IN THE WORKS. 3

I've never been much of a smoker, until now. It feels right between my fingers and so right when I pull it up to my lips. I know it's bad for me, but it's not all that bad, but all that matters is that it feels right, so it's okay.

The snow's falling from outside in distant, intricate little flurries. It's beautiful, but I don't care. All I care about is that it's cold and my ashtrays almost full, but I don't feel like getting up. Rising from my relaxed position, sprawled all over the couch, takes too much effort. I gently blow a circle of smoke from my lips and watch as it spirals up until it's nothing anymore.

I miss Angel. I want her to come into the door and tell me to get off my ass and run after Joanne. Oh yeah, we broke up again. It's nothing new, I guess. It's a cycle. A cycle that never ends. Like the snow that falls outside the window and the constant puffs into my cigarette, they never seem like they're going to end. But they have to.

I remind myself that. They have to end. Eventually. Soon.

It's all because it feels so right, that I get myself in to this mess. The cigarette feels right, the sitting feels right, the i moping _feels_ right, the flirting feels right.

That's the full circle thing here. That's all that matters. All that matters is that I lost Joanne and I feel like I can't get her back.

That's the problem. Feeling. I feel too much. It's all about feeling with me. I do stuff because I feel like it. Because my emotions take the place of my brain.

It's stupid. It's impulsive. It's self-centered. It's cruel. It's me.

When I'm in the moment, I can promise her the world. Lie because it feels right. Lie because it feels like the truth. My brain reminds me that, "Hey, bitch. You'll never stop flirting. It's who you are. It's what your emotions guide you to be." But the said emotions are too busy spinning pleasantly out of control to lesson to the very little sense I have.

So you get promises. Half-promises. Promises that promise that the promise will be broken. Promises that I really want to keep but can't.

No. That makes me sound like the victim here. Because I'm not. I like to think I am. But I'm not. I dump the small stub of the cigarette into the ashes, but I do not bother to light up another one. What's the point?

...what i is /I the point?

What's the point of all this? What's the point or anything? Why do humans bother to keep on going anyway?

Oh shit. I need to stop this. Or... Or I need to find something stronger then a fucking cigarette because apparently it's not working.

I can see Mimi's point. Once, when she was obviously high, she was telling me why she did it. Why she needed the drugs. She wanted to forget. She wanted to forget why she had to live and just live. It made me wish I talked to Roger about his addiction, or April. But Roger hates me and... And April's dead. And now it makes me wish I could talk to Mimi again, but Lord knows where she is.

Screw it. I light up again.

Oh damn it, Joanne. No matter what sort of distraction I put myself through it comes back around to her.

See, when it comes to men and woman, I'm a window shopper. I'm the little girl who comes in and tries on dresses for size with no intent on buying them. I just want to show-off how pretty I am. I cheated on Mark, I'll admit. But I never cheated on Joanne. Yeah, there's a word here, a touch her, but only when she's around. Only when she can see me and be jealous and be angry. I know what it does to her. I'm fully aware. But I flirt with change and a few other things to, because I know how it drives her crazy. And... and because it feels so right.

No. No. No. No. I'm not thinking about this. Not again.

I wish I was Cinderella. It's all so easy for her. Sure, her sister are hos but she's got a guy, a prince, coming over and saying, "Here, bitch. Take your damn shoe because I love you." And then they ride off on a carriage into the sunset and then happily ever after 'blah blah blah.'

It's not how love is. Love's more confusing. There's always a lot more trouble in 'happily ever after' then the actual story.

No. I'm back on it again.

...what? There's no more in this pack? What the hell? These are cheap.

I stuff the cigarette butt into the ashtray and stand up, looking out the window and wondering for a moment what Angel would of really want me to do.

And then I scoff, roll my eyes at the thought and run out the door. I'm going to need a lot more cigarettes.


	3. JOANNE: You Wish

YOU WISH

**AUTHORS NOTE: Hey bitches, I'm baaaack. That's right. Love it. After a long absence, here's an update to this story/one-shot-a-thon. Joanne, for your viewing pleasure. Also, for this story I'm trying to use a different style eachtime, but I'm running out of ideas. Plus, I'm going to try to write Roger soon, and I'm worried about that. The rest are going to be hard, because Collins, Mark, and Roger our out to kill me. But off that soapbox. Enjoy.**

You wish... You shake your head, pulling the band out of your hair and letting it fall before rolling your shoulders back with a sigh.

You are sitting cross-legged on a old rusty fountain, pulling coins out of your pocket and rolling them around in your palm. You consider this a very unlawyer-like position, spenders falling down over your elbows and pant legs rolled up to above your knees, untucked and barefoot. You considered putting your legs into the water, just to see what it feels like, but you decided it'd be too cold. The water probably holds every time of sickness that has worked it's way into Central Park.

You flip over Abraham Lincoln your palm and stare down at him. The man who brought this country through the Civil War and the man who died in a old opera house booth, ironically by a man who's last name is Booth. But now, he was just a name, just a man molded into copper and pressed into a chapter in a History book. A legacy saved in metal.

You pluck the penny from your palm and let it slowly fall into the fountain, hearing the light kur-plunck as the coin hits the water opposed to sitting it.

You wish you could be remembered. But something better then metal, something more significant. What, you don't know.

Your fingers sort over the rest of the coins, picking out the next one and shifting to it's face.

A quarter. George Washington. Founder of our country and General of the Revolutionary war. A glorified man, nonetheless, probably not as true and honorable as you'd like to make him out to be. But he made a difference. He set the stone. He changed lives.

You pull it from your palm and press it in your right before tossing it over your shoulder.

You wish you could make a difference.

You look down at the remaining coins, gently moving the rest aside, picking up a nickel and holding it to the light momentarily.

Thomas Jefferson. Freckled and sandy-haired, tall and awkward. Eloquent. Drafted the very words the country lived by. They say he wasn't a public speaker though, and lived behind his pen for words.

With a smirk, you toss the coin over your shoulder, feeling your face melt into a grin as you hear fall.

You wish you could have power despite weakness.

Two coins remain. Another quarter and a dime run smoothly into your fingers as you tilt your hand down, swiping them up to the light.

You grin, pocketing the quarter, holding the remaining coin, the dime, between your index and middle finger. Roosevelt. _It is time for the truth to be spoken, frankly and boldly._ You twist the metal through your fingers. Pearl Harbor. World War II. Surely he meant more then a ten cent piece, tossed around from pocket to pocket and dumped into fountains. Surely he changed the world enough to mean a bit more to people then a name that had to memorize, along with dates, math problems, and vocabulary. Tentatively, you bring your hand over your shoulder, preparing yourself to let it go.

You wish... You wish... You wish you weren't so crazy.

Your fingers tremble and you shove your hands back into your pocket, letting the coin drop and hearing the distant clank of it against the quarter, as if the whole entire park has been stunned silent and the only thing you can hear is yourself.

You're crazy. That's what you are. Damn crazy. Making wishes on coins and sitting here, watching New York socialite walk their dogs while people are dying. People like Angel. Like Mimi and Roger and you're sitting here wishing.

Being without Maureen is making you crazy. You're believing in things she ought to believe. Things you oughtn't, like... wishes and miracle and such insanity. Angel's death has made you crazy and killed your logic. What we're you thinking?

You run a hand over your hair and sigh, rolling down your pants legs and pulling up your suspenders. You retrieve your shoes and tie them with renewed vigor, tucking in your shirt and pulling back your hair into a neat satisfied bun, delicately placing your hands into your pockets.

You pick up the dime, Roosevelt, and pop him into the water.

You wish wishes really do come true.


	4. MARK: Contentment

CONTENTMENT

**AUTHORS NOTE: I know this sounds stupid, but please review. No, it's not going to stop me from writing, but I'd like to know that somewhere, out there, someone is reading this. Ha. And uh- I do like critics. And yes, those are different from flames. And... I struggle with Mark, so if he seems out of character anywhere, tell me.**

**Also, I have officially decided for myself that the key to figuring out Mark is figuring out exactly where to draw the line between playful and constantly serious. Like, a safe mix.**

I am content with nothing.

The projector stands in the center of the room like some tired symbol of hope, constantly mocking me. Around it is a blanket of abrasive white paper with tired old scribbles on them- a prayer for inspiration. For those of you keeping up at home, the prayer hasn't been answered.

I've got six hours of amazing footage, fifty seven of shit, and many more of all sorts of shots I could never use. However, figuring out how to start in a way that pleased me was like attempting to shove a square block into a circular hole. It really isn't going to happen.

Apparently, I'm "obsessing over my damn film again" and this isn't really going to work for anyone. They all are hovering over me constantly, calling and coming over uninvited to attempt to see so progress. All they see, however is a slightly messier loft with more white sheets of papers and pens strewn all over the place. In fact, the most thing of the most importance I have done in the last week or so was chew on a pen so hard that it started oozing black ink. So I set it down on sheet of paper and let it spill everywhere.

I almost want a refrigerator just so I could put it up and show everyone my art work. And a gold star.

The loft has eloped into a dull dark black that really makes me sick to my stomach. The only light is the stray pieces that come in from the outside, orange-grey streak that wander in broadly and leave as they like and the sharp light of an alarm clock. It flickers on and off constantly because the power went out a few days ago, but it still reads the right time- 11:34. I watch the puffs of heat rise from the ancient cracked coffee mug of hot chocolate in small bits from it's post on the counter, billowing away to the end of the world.

The only sound is water dripping from the upper levels and into the loft. I set up a bucket under it and it plops in at a inconsistent unreliable rate. It stopped raining an hour ago, but the water still falls. It doesn't matter too much to me.

The alarm clock on the front table blinks 11:36 at me and I really guess I could go to bed soon. I don't want to.

My eyes dance over the projector and I grunt and pull myself off the couch, surveying the enemy for a moment. I know my problem is not figuring out how I want to start. My problem is realizing that this is the beginning of the end. This was the finale. This was officially saying goodbye to Roger, who was gone. To Mimi. To Angel. This was finally moving on and letting go. This was trudging past something that didn't exist anymore and moving on to something that did.

I look at clock again- 11:48. The lines on the eight shift into a new number.

Ho. Ho. I am stand corrected. It is 11:49.

My fingers work their way over the comfortable buttons of the projector in the dark. Play is not hard to find. Silently- only with the slightest click of the reel, the uncut footage rolls together in a jumpy mirage of thoughts, feelings and emotion. I can feel myself being catapulted through all time, everything that ever happened, in merely a matter of seconds.

Christmas. New Years. Valentine's Day. April Fool's. Last Month. This Month. Last Week.

I can't stand it. It all goes so fast.

Last month, Roger was running through this very room with his guitar and this idiotic grin on his face, screaming old forgotten rock lyrics will attempting to play the appropriate cords. Last Month, Maureen was sitting on that very couch with her arm around Joanne's waist, whispering something that was obvisiously suggestive in her ear. Last Month, Mimi was giggling about burnt toast and sour cream on one of the common lazy mornings. Last month, Angel was alive.

Last month, we were happy.

Where did it all go? How can something that was so simple a month ago become so complicated? How does it get so hard to survive?

There is a shot of Maureen making a kissy face into the lenses. There is a shot of Joanne laughing about something that was probably stupid. There was a shot of Collins reading from one of his philosophy books in an attempt to make them understand. There was a shot of Mimi rolling her eyes from her perch on Roger's lap. There was a shot of Roger attempting to write a song, muttering under his breath and cursing at the ceiling.

There was a simple, quiet sort of shot of Angel softly playing her drums.

Where, I can't help but wonder, has last October gone? Fuck, where has anything worth living for gone? Why, in a loft that was once lighted, warm and full now completely empty- all accept for one stupid little film reel, rolling away as if it can take the place of reality.

Why, I have to ask myself- like some naive three year old child, do people have to die?

I slam the projector in frustration and it stills, blinking the one shot with a maniacal sort of insanity only seen in horror movies and only described in books. I want to scream, but merely growl instead, ripping the reel from the projector in hopes it would just, please, stop. The machine lets out the most god-awful animalistic shriek and the reel rips.

I lied. Now, it's about four hours of good footage.

The screen abruptly fades to a bright sort of white. White like hospitals, endings, and empty, useless paper.

A rather large drop of water lands in the bucket somewhere distantly and initiates a harty sort of plop from the bucket. The ginger-light from the apartment across the street flicks off.

I feel myself sink to my knees, wondering what any one of us did to deserve this. What anyone ever did to deserve anything.

It is midnight.

For the record, I am still content with nothing.


End file.
